


So We Wouldn't Be Away For Long

by Ivecygnus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Baking, Body Worship, Domestic Fluff, Dorks in Love, Feelings, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Implied Sexual Content, Jim Moriarty Has Feelings, M/M, Moriarty is Alive, One Shot, Past Violence, Riddles, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty Fluff, Sleepy Cuddles, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:01:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28617741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivecygnus/pseuds/Ivecygnus
Summary: Moriarty and Sherlock experience human feelings and even if nothing is perfect at first, they know how to make it right eventually.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	So We Wouldn't Be Away For Long

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer - this is purely a fanfiction!
> 
> This Sheriarty idea popped on my mind and I decided not to leave it unattended.
> 
> Also, I spared only three hours to this so it is very likely that there are some typos, but I hope they do not make it hard to read! Anyway, have a good read xD

Those truculent wisps of ruggedness wafted and floated haphazardly around the block of flats—their sinister meetings were never clever enough to catch Sherlock’s repertoire of observations unrehearsed. _Humans,_ he thinks vaguely before his shrewdness cut through the impenetrable. Such sagaciousness was so easily defeated by the mass for which he was scatterbrained and ever-so-fretful. The general sentiment is that humans are compassionate, but this remark of his had so many variables and conditions that it practically became meaningless.

The wicked gleam of suspense was ominously reigning over his dilated pupils as he sized their brokenness—their irreversible marvelling over what they weren't supposed to know will catch up to them. Once the entity discovers what it is unready to see, the mass will follow along to evaluate their courage and never bounce back of this destination. _Why were they so incredibly witless?_ Some sense of entitlement makes citizens believe he will be their saviour daily and hourly just to receive their ultimate condemnation?

The third law of motion even said that for _every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction;_ that being said, he could not grasp their spleen on him once the job is done and their ordinariness was safe.

The couple he mentally patronised was just taking a cab and parting their lips for innocuous kiss—yes, now this whole fiasco made sense. According to his precise calculation they will be taken as hostage in exactly an hour and twenty minutes and another spontaneous romp around London will begin on order to get them back. The sky was tar-black and the city was a meadow of misdemeanours that could be sentenced to the gibbet. Sherlock liked to play out this scenario avidly, it was much more entertaining than serving to a society that never served back.

‘How did you do it?’ he spat contemptuously at his partner who sat just across the room.

‘Pardon me, darling?’

‘How did you survive the gunshot that clearly went through your skull back then?’ Jim Moriarty was greasing a shallow dish for baking and the scene would be much more domestic if it was not for the artlessness they both knew in each other so well.

He grins crookedly. ‘It is high time that you figure things out on your own, sweetheart,’ he set the timer to fifteen minutes and Sherlock growled crossly at the subtle gesture. ‘The dough must become this marigold shade before I turn off the oven, but I fear this is all the time you have to figure out this on your own.’

‘You are unfair.’

He has no spare time to criticize his boyfriend’s queer tendencies as he grabbed the newspaper and began scrabbling over the margins and highlighting key phases he might find useful in his overview. Jim Moriarty marred all the fun! He was nowhere done when the fine movements of his wrist ceased and his usual blazingly fast typing stopped all at once. He had no sooner found the answer than the timer set off.

Jim bemuses when he enters the kitchen, but Sherlock ambled to him and hooked his foot around Jim’s ankle in order to pull him closer. He was fully aware that Jim’s career of consulting criminal had been summarized in the books over his desk and even in the cursory reviews he left under his student’s works. He liked leaving clues. 

Truthfully, the harrowing discomfort returned in the form of unpalatable facts about his lover’s recent past. Maybe there was a solid chance for him to become an accomplished lecturer sooner than now—his gallant fashion of flirting and guileless science of making the detective fall for him over and over again were just a speck of the normality he possessed. His romantic nature mismatched the criminal’s world and Sherlock found himself sleeplessly trying, _hoping_ that he will not have to witness the reverberation of his own paranoia. His elation mingles with the darkness of this ungodly our when his lover was no longer gurgling with smoke-corrupted lungs and crawling among pulseless semblances of humans. He is showing off his top tier dirty talking skills while baking and Sherlock feels that sliver of shock come as he almost cries knowing they will see peace for today.

‘I hope your answer will be immaculate,’ Jim’s heavily-lidded eyes are beady with the admiration he carries for the other—hands used to landing over the other’s skin as if pulled by indestructible gravity of gratification.

‘I had a talk with Mycroft.’

‘Oh, your lovely brother, I knew he would not rant and rave for that time I took his cane,’ he reiterated Mycroft’s name a few times with eyebrows flicking at the memory.

‘Hardly, considering you took the cane which was a pistol and demonstrated your accuracy at gun shooting and then even gave it to the police with his fingerprints all over.’

‘My, my,’ he feigned abhor and then laughed good-humouredly, pulling Sherlock by the waist. ‘How is his diet going between the meals? Last time he finished his one month eating program in a weekend.’

‘He removed all unhealthy foods from his apartment,’ Sherlock protested.

‘Yes, and it must have been delicious.’

Both had hard time not grinning at the chucklesome jokes they threw around—now Jim was hemmed in by Sherlock’s hands and with all his peculiarity, Moriarty had no intention of resisting the other to keep him all to himself. They indulged in their enfeebled patience for each other; teeth clanking as they kiss and Moriarty parted his lips to return the favour and give Sherlock’s jittery heart the delirium it needed amidst all those aimless facts he lived for. 

The kiss had its own cadence—Sherlock’s mouth tasted like tea with jam and Moriarty giggles cheekily at the notorious man whose mouth tasted like his own. Gingerly, Sherlock flicked his tongue and prepped kisses around Jim’s stubble and partially opened lips, earning a satisfied purr. Listening to his laboured breathing amplified his own excitement, hands prompting him to unite those long lost two halves in an eternal _eclipse._ Jim’s legs are unanchored as he gave in to the touch, drifting over his skin and waltzing away into the darkest corners of his soul.

‘You have not answered,’ Jim said. ‘Your brother—’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock inhales sharply, ‘there is a body in the morgue with a label tag that says _‘differential equations’_ and I am not very convinced that this is the sniper’s name. What have you done?’

With beseeching gaze the professor ran his tongue over Sherlock’s mouth and almost exhaled into him with the next kiss—hands already rinsed from the ordeal he was once haunted by and now the intimacy he offered was cathartic almost. Sherlock kisses the disparaging pain away—kiss by kiss, _beat by beat,_ touch by touch.

‘We both know this is not accurate, my love,’ Sherlock uttered and knew this fallacies and delusions are not winning this time—Jim is a fastidious to dragging this brilliant man into the sheets and pining for him like a wall would pin for a clock and like fatality would reap hours savagely. Even the great detective was stunned how Moriarty managed to fit him in this philosophical farce of his daily life and this hateful, panic-stricken conviction curled at the pit of his gut. ‘If I am to theoretically check the papers of your students, will I see this topic being examined lastly?’

‘Clever little thing,’ Moriarty rejoices, however, something is still askew and Sherlock does not give in to the temptation until those dexterous fingers Moriarty had are not denuding him inch by inch.

‘Wouldn’t that be a great misfortune? Not to inspect the papers while you are baking—excuse my intolerance. I could not help it and took them from your desk, but as I see there are tiny dots over the papers that are very unnecessary. Is there a chance that if I accidently count the letter which correspond to the number of dots, the answer I want will come to daylight?’

‘Nothing is facts, darling, sometimes it is blank pages you interpret regardless of the reality,’ he sing-sang over his ear, the sound was lilting and arousing. ‘We are all biased to some extend and I fear what we have may have clouded your fidelity. It is reason over matter.’

‘If I read this all over again I will find the answer and hence, this will be not how you did it, but why.’

This disquieting god, this cavernous wry thing that overstepped all borders he had was smart enough to receive the sweetest rewards. ‘Good, Sherlock. My good boy. How unyielding your parents taught you to be, I wish to meet them soon,’ he whole-heartedly confessed.

‘I’d rather the opposite knowing you will defraud Mycroft in backgammon and stir his temperament,’ even so, he knew Moriarty used Mycroft as a frame for reference—where Holmes’s armour ends and where does their skin begin?

He licks the thready thud over Sherlock’s neck and tugs on his clothes eagerly, teeth grazing over his carotid and down to his clavicles, knowing is anatomy in great detail. He fetched the evanescent moon hidden in Sherlock's eyesーyellow fog now veiling over London as their curious experiment continues.

Jim Moriarty baptized the amoralーSherlock's awareness of this had blown up one day like tempestuous bonfire, for the other's personality was reckless and volatile at times, but judgement was anathema to Sherlock and the meager logic he found behind why he should be with him and why he should not, gave him a chance to try being just like them. The couple that headed to the city and other ridiculously humane type of creatures. Devoting himself to professor Moriarty is the most righteous deed Sherlock had committed and his religion now was to believe in the lips that breathed reason into the stagnation of his own mind.

'If you do not grade those papers, you will be fired from the only sane job Mycroft had managed to find you.'

'Sex is like math, baby,' tantalizingly he pushed the right buttons and Sherlock pecks his crown and spoke again with sultry enquiry.

'How so?'

'I divide your legs and then we are thankful that nothing is going to multiply because we are both males.'

Sherlock's body winces with suppressed laugher. 'What about the biscuits?'

'They are not edible, anyhow.'

'Fair enough.'

Then they moved to the bedroomーJim almost gave Sherlock early greys with his frivolous and immature incursion of the flat. Once it happened because Sherlock was singled out and his team shunned him and ridiculed his theories because of the little quirks that did not appeal to them and then Moriarty came to solve crosswords together. Once Moriarty was heedless of the pessimistic liaison with himself and Sherlock was there to clear his plugged gun barrel and loyally retreat to their voluptuous activities that quickly escalated to the sweetest love-making this jinxed city had seen.

Later on when Jim made sure Sherlock is safely asleep and cuddled in his armsーhe himself got his head down in dreamless sleep. Even his morning-softly voice is sonorous and Sherlock worships this body for a second; this nourished body of tactfulness and nimbleness that lacks brutal force. He strokes Moriarty's cheek once then twice, _again then again._

He went to read the answer and finally connect to why Jim had to fake his own death. He sneaked his students' papers and began observing with blanket thrown across his feet and, the words miraculously formed the message. 

_' Why did I do it? So we wouldn't be away for long.'_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and feedback are much appreciated :) 
> 
> You can find me on Instagram: @writer_ivecygnus


End file.
